Speranza

Speranza.

I don't know what to write about, I tell my friend. I don't know what to write about, my friend tells me. But how does he know I have all inside of me? The words rush out when time is least expected. These words inside of me. I'm always too busy. These words inside of me up at night, they keep. The night is, but not a friend, but a bitch I can't avoid. The nights I have are though a vessel for my words, an angry flow of shame and regret. Words, playing with my head. These nights, I lay awake with the past that haunts me. I toss and I turn. The ticking of time. The whirl of the air-con. The night reminds me of my fragility.

I asked myself every night, why? Why me? These thoughts? These pills? Why me? If I had less a brain, would it be easy? Would I tire myself out and fall driftlessly? No. I wouldn't be me. No amount of shame is worth the pain of not being me. These words haunt me. But they are me. I am because they are. I am because I was. Was is not a wish away.

Yes. Even sometimes, my thoughts make me want to end the day. But that's all right. They are my words. I don't wish them away. I toss and I turn, I toss and I turn, I toss and I turn. But I don't actually want it to end. See, this is me and my words are my cry. Others cry. Maybe I'm not alone. The more I cry, the more I learn. These pills, they try to take away the words. But I don't want them away. Without them, the night would just be a long black hole. I liked the fuss. It makes me, me. These words, they come at night, but what if? What if they didn't come at night? What if they came when I wanted? They're in there, somewhere. But how do I find them to come out to play, without the pills, without the booze, without the need for help along the way?

No needing help is not bad. That's not what I say, but help can come from the inside. The words they're in there. Yes. I've always been told to keep them away. Don't do this. Don't do that. What are they afraid I'll say? I am me and I am proud.

Maybe it's you that's afraid. Who you are is not what you see in the mirror. That's not you that filter, that bag, that new thing that only distracts us from who you really are. You don't hate me. You hate what's inside of you.

Your nights are darker than mine. Yes. And sometimes I envy. But not all the time. See, my nights are when I come alive. When do you? Where do your words go? They become credit. That credit gets you what? A new thing, that nice lip paint. Those are just things that's not letting your words out. That's hiding them, brushing them away. Out of sight, lock the door, fuck off, throw away the key.

I'm not afraid. My words make me free. The pills, the booze. I don't want to hide. I want them here and to speak them out. Maybe one day, my words will find friends. They'll go out and play. And when that day comes, they will be free. My words will be happy knowing that they aren't alone.

And as for me, I'll be here. Happy that there are moments of connection. Excited for my nights again. Excited to get through to the next day. More words are coming, so I got to go. Read my words, not my phone.

Uh oh, what have I done?